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by phnx007
Summary: Angel is kind of tired of resurrections, but then again, maybe this one won't be as dramatic. After all, he's used to life on the road. Post NFA.
1. Chapter 1

In a dark alleyway, behind an old hotel, a golden retriever lay sleeping, worn out from a long day of scavenging for scraps of food. The dog was old, around ten years of age. He was tired, in the I've-lived-a-long-life kind of way. The golden retriever wasn't sure what his name was anymore, but he suspects he had one, once upon a time. Anyway, he didn't care much for finding out. He was going to make this alleyway his resting place.

But that plan, as all half-hearted plans tend to go, got interrupted. The interruption came in the form of a blinding light, which was followed by a thud, a groan, and then silence.

The golden retriever had lifted his head, slightly annoyed by the presence of someone else in his chosen deathbed. From what he could make out through the black night, a human form lay crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Deciding there was still time to die tomorrow, the golden got up and padded over to the body.

From what the dog could tell, there was nothing physically wrong with the man, who had seemingly come out of nowhere. Though there had been a groan, it had sounded to be more of one of annoyance, rather than pain. In fact, on closer inspection, the man looked to be sleeping. All death wishes forgotten, and frustrated by his inability to understand what just happened, the golden started licking the man's face in order to wake him up.

This plan went far better than the last one, as the man slowly opened his eyes, staring up at the dog. The man had deep chocolate brown eyes. They reminded the dog of his last owner. Before the thoughts of his best friend could send him deeper into depression, the man sighed and opened his mouth to speak. And what came out made the golden even more confused than before, for the man had said something quite curious:

"Well, this resurrection was a lot less painful than the last one. At least, this time I'm not naked."

Yes, the golden thought, this man is quite curious indeed. In his younger days, the golden was an adventurous pup, always ready for the next big journey to be had. And sitting there, beside the Impossible Man, he figured that maybe another one was right around the corner. The golden cocked his head to side, staring at his new friend, suddenly deciding that maybe tomorrow wasn't such a good day to die after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Connor Riley ran down the street, the broadsword in his hand dripping in purple demon's blood. He wasn't entirely sure what kind of demon it was, but he was definitely kind of sure it was a kind of demon that got pissed when you chopped off the head of its mother. He ducked around the corner of a building, back flat against the wall, and waited.

He didn't wait for long. Connor may have the speed of a vampire, but whatever the hell this demon was, it was just as fast. But Connor had been fighting evil for the past seven years, and when he stepped out from behind the building to ambush the purple blood demon, he was able to thrust the broadsword straight through its heart. Of course, if he had done the research on these demons like he was supposed to, he would have known that the only way to kill this particular demon was by chopping the head off.

The demon chuckled. "Not quite, sonny."

Connor pulled the broadsword out of the demon's chest, but by this time, the demon had his own sword out and the swords clashed together as they each went for a killing blow. But instead of continuing the fight, the demon lowered his sword, and took a step back, a smug grin spreading across his face.

"You've got spark, kid. I'd say you're a slayer, but you're kind of the wrong gender for that."

Connor shrugged. "So I've been told. What do you want?"

The demon ignored him. "You do seem familiar though. Have we fought before?"

"No, I'm pretty sure I would have remembered if I had seen a face as ugly as yours," Connor said, raising the broadsword up a little more. At the movement, the demon's eyes narrowed as he took in the sword. Connor's gaze followed the demon's. After a few seconds, the demon's cocky grin grew even larger.

"Angel."

Connor's head snapped back to the demon. "What?" he said, suddenly on edge.

"Angel. You know, vampire with a soul. He used to help the helpless or the hopeless or whatever? That guy?" The demon's tone was mocking, full of disgust.

"What about him?" Connor snapped.

"That's his broadsword, if I remember correctly. In fact…" The demon paused, the grin on his face now down right psychotic. "In fact, isn't that the _very_ same broadsword he used in LA?"

Connor had the demon pinned to the wall in a matter of seconds, so fast, the demon wasn't even aware that he had moved. "What do you know about it?" Connor hissed, trying to keep his voice steady.

The demon didn't seem fazed by his new position at the tail end of the broadsword in question. He laughed again, and the laughter sent chills down Connor's spine.

"I was there. I saw the whole thing. Angel may have been successful in bringing down Wolfram & Hart, but some of us were able to get away. I will admit, though, him taking down that dragon was mighty impressive. But hearing his screams as the fire consumed him, now that was music to my—"

The demon's head fell off his shoulders and rolled to Connor's feet, still wearing the smirk that remembered Angel's death. Connor stared at it, feeling sick to his stomach. It had been seven years. He was 26 years old now, in a committed relationship. He had a job at the new Watcher's Council. He was thinking about getting married. On the outside, his life seemed pretty good. But it was the inside that struggled, for everything that happened in his life in the past seven years, whether it good or bad, was haunted by the memory of his father. More than anything, he regretted turning his back on Angel that night, as the Wolfram & Hart building collapsed around them. Maybe if he had stayed, Angel would have lived. _Yeah, maybe_, he thought. He was always thinking of maybe's. Buffy kept telling him not to.

Just as he remembered he was supposed to have reported back by now, he heard footsteps running toward him. Three pairs, to be exact. Shaking off what the demon had said, and all thoughts of his father, he turned, just as the others arrived.

He smiled, and held up his father's broadsword. "Got him."

Buffy, Spike, and Faith sighed out of relief. They all smiled back at him.


	3. Chapter 3

Angel was fairly certain he understood what was going on. Except the dog. That he was confused by. But other than that, he knew he was in an alley, and if the universe still had that ha-ha sense of humor he remembered them having, he was pretty sure he knew exactly which alley he had landed in.

He wasn't too pleased with that knowledge.

Angel was also aware of the fact that he had died. Being consumed by dragon's fire wasn't something one so easily forgot. He just wasn't sure how long ago it had happened, which means he also didn't know the date, the year, or the time he had landed in either, but he figured he would have time to figure that out soon enough.

Oh, and he also seemed to be breathing. Not like the fake-breathing he used to do to pass as human, but actual, honest to God, breathing.

And, if he listened carefully…yes, there it was. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

He wondered why he didn't immediately notice.

After a moment's thought, he chalked it up to the disorientation of being resurrected for the third time. He was really going to need to speak to someone about that. But before he could go about doing that, he really needed to up off the ground.

Angel lifted his head up, taking in his surroundings. The dog, he noticed, was still looking at him.

"Don't suppose you know what year it is, do you?"

The dog cocked his head to the side.

Angel sighed. "Yeah, didn't think so." He stood up, using a nearby trashcan as support. He felt a little weak, but compared to the last time he had been brought back from the dead, he considered only using a trashcan for support a huge improvement.

He was right about what alley he was in. The one behind the Hyperion. The one in which he led his friends to—_best not go there just yet_, he told himself. Shaking those unpleasant thoughts from his mind, he made his way to the front of the hotel. For some reason, it didn't surprise him that the dog followed.

What did surprise him though was the fact that the Hyperion was still standing. He kind of expected the huge ass demon army to destroy it, but maybe they were too busy destroying him and his friends that they didn't really care about the hotel.

There was a sign on the door. It read:

_"Angel Investigations is Temporarily Out of Business!"_

Angel scoffed. _Temporarily _out of business? Someone must not have noticed that the namesake of the agency was dead, and oh yeah, everyone else who had worked there was dead too. Although, come to think of it, Angel didn't remember putting this sign out when they made the switch over to Wolfram & Hart. And he obviously didn't put the sign out after the dragon's fire thing.

He really needed to figure some things out.

Not yet ready to deal with the many ghosts that lived within the Hyperion's walls, and it didn't seem that anyone had been there in a while anyway, Angel headed to the next logical place—Wolfram & Hart.

Walking along the streets of LA wasn't all that new to Angel. What was new was his walking companion. The golden retriever seemed to have decided to stick with him. Angel could tell the dog was old. The golden walked with a slight limp, and most of its face was white, indicating his age. But unlike that one hundred years in which he spent denying any company, Angel found he enjoyed the dogs' presence.

He was never one to make idle conversation, but the silence of the night was getting to him.

"You know, if you're going to stick with me, you're going to need a name," Angel said, looking down at the dog as the golden trotted along side him. The dog looked up, as if understanding what Angel was saying. It wasn't the most bizarre thing Angel had seen.

"How about Jimmy?" No answer.

"Buddy?" Silence.

"Chester?" The dog kept walking.

Angel paused. He had never named a dog before. He vaguely remembered Corderlia telling him she was going to get him a puppy, but quickly got rid of the thought at the memory of Cordy. He looked back down at the dog. At a closer look, the dog definitely had years on him. Scars lined the dog's paws and legs. A long, jagged one across his face, narrowly missing the dog's eye. But despite the scars, Angel could tell there was fire in that dog. Or, there used to be anyway. Suddenly, he thought of it.

"I got it. Casey. It's Irish." The dog stopped then, and sat back on its hind legs, staring at Angel.

"You like that? Casey. It's a good name."

The dog's tail wagged, but he still made no sound. Angel took that as a yes.

"Well then, Casey. I'm Angel."

They both continued on into the night, more at ease with the silence surrounding them now that it seemed they were on the same page. Of course, Angel wasn't even sure what page he was on, but he was kind of glad he had a friend to be lost with.

When they finally made it to Wolfram & Hart, Angel's comfort was quickly diminished. Because where Angel distinctly remembered the offices of Wolfram & Hart being, there stood nothing. Just an empty lot.

Not that Angel wasn't glad to see that his plan to take on the Senior Partners had seemingly worked, but W&H were the only ones Angel could think of to get some answers from, and seeing as they no longer existed, he was truly lost now.

Sensing his new friends' uneasiness, Casey started whimpering.

"Well, Casey, at least we don't have to deal with evil lawyers this time around."

The dog whimpered again. Not sure what else to do, and spotting a bench on the side of the road not too far off, Angel led Casey over there and sat down. Casey rested his head on the top of Angel's knee, and Angel absentmindedly began petting Casey's head.

It hadn't escaped Angel's notice on the walk over here that him and Casey were not once attacked by vampires or demons. In fact, LA seemed quiet. Well, as quiet as the City of Angels can be. It wasn't a supernatural quiet, either. It was just a normal quiet. Angel wasn't sure, but the only word he could think of to describe it was peaceful.

There was a trashcan next to the bench and sitting on top of the trashcan was today's newspaper. Needing some answers, and figuring finding out what day it was was a good start, Angel reached over to grab it and began reading.

But he only got as far as the date, which read May 19, 2011, before he had to stop and recover from the shock he was sure had settled on his face.

Yeah, the goddamn universe did have that ha-ha sense of humor he so clearly remembered.

"Casey, let's go get drunk."


	4. Chapter 4

"A puppet?"

"Did you not hear me the first time?"

"No, I heard you…it's just, well…you? As a puppet?"

"Shhh, keep your voice down. No need to yell it to the world."

"Angel, I'm whispering."

"Oh. You are?"

"I think you've had too much to drink."

"No, I'm fine. But yeah, I got turned in to a puppet." He giggled. "But even as a puppet, I still kicked his ass."

"Whose?"

Angel took another swig of his whiskey, not wanting to answer. Another thought struck him. "Hey, if an astronaut and a caveman were to fight, who would win?"

"What?"

"It's a question I've been pondering for seven years."

"Seems like a silly question to ponder for so long."

"Well I only pondered it for about 40 minutes, and then we got distracted by the death of our friend who got possessed by this Primodial God person—thing, or something, and then I had to convince everyone I was evil, but like, with my soul, you know? And then I said I wanted to slay the dragon. And then I was dead for the next seven years. And now I'm thinking about astronauts and cavemen again." Angel vaguely wondered when exactly he had picked up the "babble-mouth."

"You've lost me."

"Nevermind. Just forget about it, Kate."

They had discovered they were siting next to each other in Villain's Tavern about 30 minutes earlier. Almost like their very first meeting, all those years ago, the awkward hellos of two people who haven't seen each other in ten years. Not to mention the last seven of which one of them had spent dead. Plus, their last meeting was right after Kate Lockley's suicide attempt, and a somewhat wordy epiphany on Angel's part. Needless to say, they were still on somewhat shaky ground with each other.

Before the whiskey had got to him, though, Angel had tried asking Kate if she knew what had happened to Wolfram & Hart. Her response was that she figured he had something to do with their disappearance, adding a "Good riddance" under her breath. She had only been back in Los Angeles for the past two years, returning after she had been offered her job back on the police force.

Kate also mentioned that she hadn't heard of any demon attacks in the past two years she had been here. After doing some investigating, she got in contact with Anne Steel, who still ran the local shelter. Anne had said the same could be said for the five years before that, adding "My kids don't know quite what to do with themselves anymore."

At that point in the conversation, Angel was having a hard time focusing, courtesy of his seventh whiskey. Despite the heartbeat and the breathing, he seemed to still have a high alcohol tolerance.

Somehow, through the whiskey, he had begun telling stories of his time at Wolfram & Hart.

Now, they were both silent. Then Kate said, her voice small, "Angel, what do you mean you were dead for seven years?"

Angel turned to her, and what she saw in his eyes nearly broke her heart. The guilt was still there, as she expected it would always be, but now pain and loss were at the forefront, and most of all, confusion. But it was only a flash, before his mask was back up.

"I slayed the dragon, and then he slayed me too," he replied, giggling once again. But Kate could still detect a bitterness underneath the haze of whiskey, and a sadness so deep she was practically drowning in it.

Not sure how to respond, Kate looked away, unable to bear the sadness radiating off of him. She had never seen him this expressive before, and she cursed herself for not stopping his drinking six glasses ago.

"Astronauts," Kate said after a few more moments.

"Hmm?"

She looked back at him. He must have forgotten what they were talking about, lost in the memories of the ghosts that lived in his head. Kate noticed he had been doing that every so often during the course of their conversation. Brooding, they called it. Some things never change.

"Astronauts would win. Cavemen never evolved. That's why they died out."

It took him a moment to catch on, but when he did, he smiled. Kate thought he should do that more often. He had a nice smile.

A little while later, and after some more ridiculous W&H stories, Kate got up.

"I'm going to use the restroom, I'll be right back," she said.

"Okay. I'll still be here." She left for the restroom while Angel asked for another glass of whiskey. Just as the bartender handed it to him, another familiar voice broke through his drunken haze.

"The last time I found you, you were also drinking. Though before, it was more of a red liquid variety." The person who belonged to the voice sat down in Kate's seat, smiling at Angel, who didn't seem at all surprised at his new visitor.

"Whistler."

"Angel." Whistler turned to the bartender. "I'll have what he's having." The bartender nodded and went to get another glass. Whistler focused on Angel again, still grinning. But before Whistler could get any words out, Angel spoke.

"Please do not tell me you have something you need to show me. I'll punch you right into a good fashion sense, I hear those words come out of your mouth," he said, his alcohol clouded brain clearing somewhat at the prospect of learning some answers.

Whistler shook his head, amused. It irritated Angel. "Says the one who used to dress like he was attending a funeral every day."

Angel glared.

"Right, my bad. Touchy subject."

"What do you want Whistler?" Angel sighed, staring into his whiskey.

Whistler paused a moment as the bartender handed him his drink. He gulped it in one, but still took time in answering Angel. When he did, the casual tone of his voice irritated Angel, and it kind of made him want to punch Whistler in the face.

"We've got a job for you."

After a moment's hesitation, Angel did just that, just as Kate was walking toward them.

Seeing Angel with a bloody fist, standing over another man, there wasn't really anything else she could do.

Kate sighed, pulling out her handcuffs.

Connor looked around the living room at everyone, deciding on whether or not he should say anything. Faith and Spike were huddled together on the couch, whispering God knows what to each other. They had been dating for three years now, and their honeymoon phase had yet to let up. Giles and Xander were half awake, Giles in the rocking chair and Xander on the ground, leaning up against the couch, trying to focus on the TV. Willow and Dawn sat at the table, leaning over books Connor could only guess were of the magic variety. His eyes lingered a bit longer on Dawn, suddenly feeling more at ease. She could always do that for him, even if she was too busy being all Watcher-like to Willow. He reached into his pocket, fingering the ring he had bought just a few days ago, wondering when he should ask. But the conversation with the purple blood demon still had him rattled, and he needed to tell the group about it.

His eyes finally landed on Buffy, who sat in a reclining chair, closest to Connor. She was painting her nails, but the same look on her face that had been present for the last years was still there—lost, haunted, guilt, and an over-whelming sense of grief. But despite all of that, Buffy had still been a major influence in Connor's life these past seven years, ever sensed he had turned up on her doorstep with a badly injured Spike and Illyria, and the news that the love of her life was dead.

She hadn't taken it well.

But Connor didn't want to think about those years long, hard years at the moment. He had other concerns.

Finally deciding it would be better just to spit it out, he said "That demon tonight recognized my broadsword."

Though it had already been relatively quiet in the room, now you could hear a pin drop, even if you weren't supernaturally inclined to hear it. Everyone was looking at Connor, because they all know whose broadsword it was first.

"He said he was there that night. He said he was impressed that Angel could take down the dragon all by himself," Connor continued. He left out the part about the fire consuming Angel—Buffy and the others didn't need to hear that. "He's the first demon of the Senior Partner's that we've come across in a while, right? It's been—what?—two and a half years?"

"More like three," Giles answered, now fully awake and leaning forward in his rocking chair.

"So that's got to be all of them correct? There couldn't possibly be more," said Dawn. "We hunted down most of them that first year. Maybe we're finally done." At the last thought, Dawn let out a hopeful sigh.

"Should I lift the cloaking spell, then?" Willow asked.

"No, not yet. We can't be sure yet that there aren't more of that army," Buffy replied.

"But still, there's a good chance. I know it," Willow said, half-whispering that last part.

Xander, Giles, and Willow all shared in Dawn's optimism. But Buffy, Spike, and Faith were all eying Connor worriedly, knowing he wasn't telling them everything. Their protectiveness over Angel's son wasn't ever questioned, especially in the manner of Spike, whom, upon witnessing his Sire's death, and after figuring out just who that Connor kid was anyway, had decided to repay Angel in the only way he could—looking after Connor. But as the fun, laid-back uncle who lets you drink and smoke underage, of course. To Faith and Buffy, Connor was the only thing they had left of Angel.

It seemed only fitting.

And Connor loved them all back as well, but hearing their stories about Angel just made him feel even more guilty about all the things he said and done before the memory swipe.

Connor truly hoped the purple blood demon was the last of the Senior Partner's wrath. He wasn't sure just how much more he could take.

Down below the Earth's surface, where fire burns blue, a rumbling began.

And it didn't stop.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews guys! It means a ton.**

Buffy knocked softly on Connor's door. When there was no answer, she turned to look back at Faith and Spike.

"He's in there alright, probably brooding. Out of all the annoying habits to inherit, it had to be that one," Spike said, but his words held only worry.

"Yeah, I know," Buffy sighed. "It's just so hard to get through to him sometimes. He carries so much guilt—"

"Another habit he inherited," Faith muttered.

"—that he doesn't to need carry." Buffy finished, glaring at Faith.

"Hey, I'm just telling it like it is, B. He's not a kid anymore, though. We can't keep coddling him."

"He was never a kid, Faith. And I know what you're doing. You're deflecting. You're just as worried as Spike and I are. He needs—"

This time, Buffy was cut off as the door to Connor's room pulled open. Connor stood on the other side, a small smile on his face.

"He can also hear every word you guys are saying due to having supernatural hearing. One of the perks of being the child of two vampires, you know," he said, his smile growing a little wider at seeing their guilty faces.

"We're sorry Connor. We're just worried," Buffy said.

"We also know you're not telling us everything about what happened tonight. Demon said something about Peaches, didn't he?"

Connor's smile faded, but he didn't close the door. Of course the three of them would be able to tell he was holding something back. Without a word, he gestured them inside, softly closing the door behind them. He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of his bed with a sigh, looking up at the three people he had left of his father.

They stared back at him, patiently waiting for him to confide in them, as he always did.

"The purple blood demon guy saw Angel die," he said, at last, but looked away, not wanting to see their faces.

Connor heard Buffy draw in a breath. He knew this was going to be hard for her to hear. He wasn't the only who carried guilt for not being there that night. Faith, too, felt bad for not being present for an apocalypse in which her first real friend was participating in, but she also has the some-what comfort and excuse of not knowing anything about Angel's Wolfram & Hart situation. Buffy, on the other hand, knew exactly what was going on. Well, not _exactly._ She didn't know about the battle in the alleyway. But her decision to not trust Angel would haunt her forever.

In fact, it was Buffy's decision not to trust the LA group that made the first couple years after the battle so difficult. Spike and Illyria, after being healed, blatantly refused any more help from the Scoobies. Spike could hardly look at Giles without wanting to rip his throat out for refusing to help with stopping Illyria from consuming Fred. Illyria deemed every slayer and friends of slayers not worthy of her presence. She especially hated Buffy. With Wesley's death still so near, Illyria could not understand how Buffy could refuse Angel's call for help, when she claimed to love him. Tensions ran wild for those first six months. After it was discovered that demons from the Senior Partner's army were after the survivor's, and anyone associated with them, both groups decided to put their grievances aside and work together. Eventually, after so much running, all past mistakes, on both party's, were forgiven.

"He said he was impressed that Angel could take the dragon down all by himself," Connor continued. "And then…"

"What did he say next, Connor?" Faith asked, her voice soft.

Connor turned back to look at them. "And then he said Angel's screams were music to his ears. But he didn't quite finish that sentence because his head was on the floor at my feet. His smile was still on his face though."

No one knew quite what to say after that, but Connor noticed one lone tear roll down Buffy's cheek. Even though it was one tear, it was the first time Connor seen Buffy cry.

"Do you think Willow's right? He was the last of the Senior Partner's army?" Connor asked.

There was a pause. Then, "Maybe." It was Spike who answered. As the only one who was actually there that night, not including Illyria, he was the most qualified to answer. "We killed most of them that night. Before Angel took the dragon down, he and I killed over half of the demons. Illyria and Gunn took care of the rest. After Angel died, the rest just scattered. There couldn't have been more than seventy left."

"But you don't know for sure," Connor said.

"No I bloody well don't know for sure!" Spike snapped, suddenly angry. Talk of that night was always hard for him. He had nightmares for weeks. And, he hated to admit it, but a part of him still held resentment for Buffy and the slayers not being there. "I was a little under the weather, if I remember correctly. What with a giant bloody hole in my stomach, wasn't I?

"Spike, honey, calm down," Faith said, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. He relaxed immediately, though it still took sometime to get his voice under control.

"Right, sorry," he muttered.

"It's okay," Buffy and Faith whispered together. A few more tears rolled down Buffy's cheek, and she mentally cursed herself for not being able to hold it together. When Connor first gave her the news of Angel's and Wesley's death, she had been angry. Angry at Angel for getting himself into this situation. Angry at the Powers for not warning her themselves. Just angry. For that first year, she couldn't stand the sight of Spike.

Then, after the anger, she just shut down. No tears. No apology for her behavior. Instead, she suddenly decided to put everyone else's emotions in front of hers, not wanting to deal with the confusing emotions inside herself. So she took care of Connor, she took care of Spike, and Illyria to some degree. After sometime, she was able to find forgiveness toward Spike and Illyria, and even Giles. His role in Illyria consuming Fred she knew nothing about. She forgave Angel. But it took her so long to get to that point that it seemed too useless cry.

The one person she decided she would never forgive was herself.

Buffy suddenly wondered, as the tears kept coming, why was this happening now?

Spike noticed her tears after he calmed down some more. "Buffy, luv, you're crying," he said softly. He lifted his hand to her face and wiped her tears away with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," she said shakily.

"Hey now. Weren't you the one who was just talking about unnecessary guilt?" Spike asked.

Buffy shook her head. "I should have been there. You hated me."

Connor, noticing Buffy was about to have a full break-down, grabbed her arm and pulled her down onto the bed with him. He guided her head to rest on his shoulder as he slung an arm around her. Connor never understood how Buffy had kept all that grief in. He was glad she was finally letting it all out.

"I forgive you," Spike whispered. Connor looked up at Spike and was surprised to see his eyes glistening as well.

In fact, it appeared that Faith was crying too. And then Connor felt tears forming in his eyes as well. _Crap_, Connor thought to himself. _Look at what you've done now_.

Connor would probably never remember when it had happened. But at some point during those seven years, the four of them—a soulful vampire, two vampire slayers, and a child of two vampires—became a family.

An incomplete family, but a family nonetheless.

Angel paced the length of the cell.

"I can't believe this."

"I'm not sure what's so surprising here. You punched me. Hard. I'm still bleeding," Whistler said from where he sat on the bench inside the same cell, holding a bloody tissue up to his nose.

"Yeah well, I didn't think I punched that you hard."

"You could have just waited for me to tell you that you still have the qualities of the vampire instead of finding out the way where I end up with a bloody nose and stuck in a jail cell with you."

Angel stopped pacing, and sank down against the wall with a sigh. "Why are you even in here with me, Whistler? I didn't know the Los Angeles Police Force put the victims into holding cells."

"Oh, they don't," Whistler said, wiping the rest of the blood off his nose. He folded the tissue and set it next to him. "I asked Kate to put me in here so we could talk without you running away."

"You know, it's when you say things like that that make me what to punch you."

"And I thought the breathing and the heart beating and the human thing would make you less inclined to let your temper control you."

Angel shook his head. "Seven years, Whistler. Why?"

Whistler sighed, somewhat annoyed and somewhat relieved the topic of conversation was finally leading to the important stuff.

"Before I get to that, will you please let me explain some other stuff first? And you have to let me explain all the way. No interruptions. And then you get to ask your questions. And get out of this jail cell."

Angel searched Whistler's face for any sign that he was lying. Whistler wasn't really known for giving straight-forward answers. He worked for the Powers That Be for Christ's sake. Vagueness is their specialty. But Whistler seemed fully genuine in his promise to explain everything, which Angel might have found odd if he wasn't currently sitting in a jail cell and at a total loss of anything that was going on. Whistler was the only one with the answers, so Angel nodded his head and sat back as Whistler began to explain.

"First off, I'll explain the seven years thing, so you aren't inclined to interrupt me later when I get to really important stuff. It takes awhile to undo a blood contract," Whistler began. At Angel's confused expression, Whistler scoffed.

"Geez, did being officially dead rattle your brain that much, old man? You signed a contract in blood to renounce your rights to the Shanshu prophecy, right before the big showdown. We had to undo that, which takes awhile. Dark magic, and all. So, you know, your welcome.

Secondly, we did that because…well, to put it simply—uh, well we're proud of you," Whistler said, somewhat embarrassed.

Now it was Angel's turn to scoff. "Proud of me? I got all my friends killed."

"Hey, what did I say about interruptions? Yes, the Powers That Be are proud of you. Take the compliment. We don't give them freely. And after ending up in a jail your first night back in the land of the living, you're probably not getting another one any time soon. But you got rid of Wolfram & Hart's hold on this dimension, Angel. That's not an easy task, as you may remember."

Angel's eyes darkened at the memory of killing Drogyn.

"I remember," he whispered.

Whistler looked at Angel with sympathy. "It was necessary, Angel. Drogyn understood that, in the end."

"I still killed a warrior for your cause. Why not bring back Wesley? Hmm? Or Fred? Or Gunn? Why do I deserve this third, fourth, fifth, frankly I've lost count, chance at life, huh?"

"This is a job only you can do, Angel," Whistler said, unfazed by Angel's outburst.

"Find somebody else, damn it."

"It concerns your son."

Silence.

Then,

"I'll do it." Angel paused, thinking. "I'm keeping the damn dog though."

Whistler smiled. That was easier than he thought it would be. He probably should have started with that, he realized. Now, the hard part.

"Good. That's fine. Keep the dog. Now we're getting somewhere. Connor's the first job. The second job involves a little dimension crossing, but both jobs are connected."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's not that big a deal."

"It concerns my son, so it is a big deal."

"You have to go back to Acathla."

Angel started laughing. And laughing. At some point, he reached hysterical laughing. Then he noticed Whistler was staring at him, completely serious, so he stopped.

"You're serious."

"Yes. Angel. Quor'toth is awakening. There's only person who can help you, and it's not Connor. It's—"

"Sun," Angel whispered.

"Yes."

"But he's—"

"Imprisoned in Acathla, just as you were. That's why we need you. Sun holds information about Quor'toth that not even Connor knows. You'll need both of them. But first, you're going to have to fetch Sun."

"You know Whistler, you're being a lot more specific this time around. What gives?"

Whistler shrugged. "No one needs a repeat of 1997."

"But I'm human now. My soul is mine. Angelus is gone."

Whistler shrugged again.

"Better safe than sorry."


End file.
